


By the Throat

by feusgan



Series: Skeleton Tree [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Gore, Medical Inaccuracies, mangling of the russian language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9085309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feusgan/pseuds/feusgan
Summary: Set immediately after the first chapter and epilogue of "Battlefield Medicine" by Arienai, who has written some of my favorite fics to ever grace this website. With indescribable gratitude and appreciation, thank you. Medical terminology and abbreviations are probably anywhere from a bit off to way off, since I've been geared for veterinary medicine for the past five-ish months. The Russian is almost guaranteed to be terrible, I tried and I'm sorry in advance.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arienai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arienai/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Battlefield Medicine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8302618) by [arienai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arienai/pseuds/arienai). 



_[Each day gets a little less intense_

_I no longer feel like there's someone standing on my chest]_

 

Last thing he’d heard, Osprey had told him to keep breathing. Miller had told him John was coming.

 

When the fuck did everyone else get here in his stead?

 

_[You made me more me, and I won't forget the times you helped my find my feet_

_When I was buried in my head]_

 

_[Thank you, for giving what you had to give / Taking what you had to take / And making me believe in you]_

 

Hands, everywhere. Someone- behind his head? Holding his shoulders. Stroking, maybe? Speaking low.  

 

“Shh. Vy delayete bol'shoye.”

_You’re doing great._

 

Palliative platitudes? Possibly. The signals room was a shitty hospice.

 

_[Even though I might be gone forever there will always be a place in my brain that will think of you]_

 

Something grazed the bullet in his thigh. He convulsed.    Leaking and shifting out of his lacerated torso.

 

“Sir- _look at me_ , no- Mollusk, get his head, _fuck_ \- Sir, _don’t_ -“

 

He did.

 

Right, his abdomen looked like an empty seed pod. Huh.

                                                                     He’d seen exposed ileum before. Never his own.

Naturally, the best thing to do was try to crawl away. A ten-person staccato chorus of _No_ and some forceful coaxing later, he was back to square one. Pinned.

 

       Hands near his gut, moist gauze and light pressure.

 

Hands, force. In any space that wasn’t future scar tissue and a profound ache every time the seasons changed. How to restrain raw meat. This raw meat moaned in protest.

 

                                  (“Well, at least his airway’s clear.”)

     “Pochti tam, ser.”

                       _Nearly there, sir._

 

_[You look so graceful when you're flying_

_Keep going, there's a lot of world that you haven't seen]_

 

(Did somebody just retch?

                   “Shrew, if you can’t keep it together, go help Commander Miller.”)

 

_[You have my best wishes, even if only in silence, you deserve everything that you've ever dreamed]_

 

Commotion on the stairs as the rest of the trauma team burst through the door. More oxygen, more blood, atropine. The respirator pressed into his fractured cheekbone.

They used Miller’s jacket to transfer him onto the gurney. Someone radioed for a chopper. He laid there slack-jawed, good eye drifting, encircled in fabric that smelled only a fraction less than he did.  

                  Someone floated beside him. Vitreous. White hair and glasses. A hallucination, surely. Reassuring nonetheless.                                                                

_(“Moy syn. Tvoya mat' zhdet.”)_

 

The move to the helipad was slow, calculated. Still agony, though he was far beyond caring. Response on the medical platform was instantaneous.

 

BRADYPNEA. BRADYCARDIA. HYPOVOLEMIA. STUPOR. OX SAT—

 

_Prep for damage control sx, stat. Focus on the evisceration and compound fracture, we’ll do the rest when he’s stable._

 

He hadn’t heard or understood any of that, of course. The blinding light and descent into darkness came as no surprise, despite. He’d woken next to Miller, the first time. He’d regained just enough saliva to scream when he shifted and pulled at the staples. They’d rushed in with the analgesics, at first.

 

_That won’t work on me. I’ve had drug… r-resistance… training._

 

So it was intubation and deep sedation for the forseeable future.

 

V was home when he woke up again. Held his bandaged hand, stabbed him with rejection. One more wound- but one he could tolerate. It’d cleared the air, made one less thing to agonize over. Deep down, he was grateful. Recovery would be slow, some parts irreparable. But the worst was over. V was back. Miller would get over whatever had come between them. They’d preservere in their war against the times. He’d long since done his part.

 

_[The snow melted right when the smoke cleared_

_I turned love inside out a thousand times trying to see if it was ever anything more than the will to persevere_

_I can breathe I found contentment in the end_

_Telling a god I don't believe in to go to sleep so I can think again_

_We went through thick and thin_

_Came out separate on the other end_

_But please know no matter what you'll always have me as a friend]_

  


**Author's Note:**

> Interjected text is from "By the Throat" by Eyedea & Abilities.


End file.
